


One Last Adventure

by chucks_prophet



Series: The Adventures of Dean Winchester, Vampirically Speaking [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adult Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Human Castiel, I'm Always Late on Tags, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, Overseas, Past Character Death, Paying Respects, References to Canon, Scientist Castiel, Supernatural Themes hehe, Vampire Dean, going away, they're so cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 20:03:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9673988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Dean feels himself deflating like an anchor plopping itself onto his chest, “You know I can’t tell you that.”“I had to try,” Cas says, lip twitching up in a small smile. There’s no pity to his expression. The puffy bags under his eyes, eyes that Dean, much like the ship he’s catching to Clayton, floats on, show different, but Dean knows that’s accumulated from years of heartache—long before he came along. Science has always kept Cas right. Although, it may have been challenged a little after he met Dean.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So discovering more of Walt Whitman's poetry has pretty much been the best thing to happen to me as of late. Hopefully that shines through with this fic. I'm pretty proud of it.
> 
>  
> 
> Special thanks to Whitmanarchive.org.

 

 

Inspired by [this poem](http://whitmanarchive.org/published/LG/1881/poems/76).**

One Last Adventure

Their bodies filter as nothing more than air catching between the windshield wipers of a car as it flies down the road, never stopping, never slowing—like ghosts in clothes. Dean’s lived near the sea long enough to learn it’s not looking out at the vast and endless supply of life to breathe such loneliness known as the sea that makes his stomach woozy: It’s the mortal motion, the back-and-forth.

If _only._

He feels motion sickness, but not from the throng of people surrounding him.

He can’t see them, not anymore. Not because the inky sky drips into his eyes, but because they’re shut tight to keep the tears saddled there as the dinghies are to the dock he’s standing on. His lips don’t have the same luxury, because then he can’t breathe in the scent, the aura, the very quintessence of his lover’s own lips.

Dean’s body shakes quietly while the warmth from calloused hands hold him around his neck. Held like this, Dean feels delicate—like one of the plants on the receiving end of a tightly-knit hug from Cas’s long, slender fingers. Dean hopes, with the way he’s similarly grasping Cas, he’s making him feel just as special.

Judging by the smile that slides easily across Cas’s face as he parts from Dean for the fourth time, he’s successfully shown his reciprocation.

“One more for the trip?”

Although Dean’s not soaring the high seas yet, he takes Cas’s hum against his chin as a siren call, “Depends.”

A laugh bubbles like a hot tub in Dean’s throat as forces himself to open his eyes, “On what?”

“How about a kiss for each mile?”

Dean feels himself deflating like an anchor plopping itself onto his chest, “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“I had to try,” Cas says, lip twitching up in a small smile. There’s no pity to his expression. The puffy bags under his eyes, eyes that Dean, much like the ship he’s catching to Clayton, floats on, show different, but Dean knows that’s accumulated from years of heartache—long before he came along. Science has always kept Cas right. Although, it may have been challenged a _little_ after he met Dean.

Dean’s life hasn’t been so peachy, either. He doesn’t have the bags under his emerald eyes to prove it, being immortal and all, but he does have plenty of bag _gage_. Cas knows about Benny, about how much he means to Dean, but the details of their past. Dean’s been trying to keep their future in check.

It all started in Louisiana, which was meant to be a quick stop on his journey of self-discovery, or rather _re_ -discovery, following the untimely death of his little brother.

Instead, he found shelter inside a camper truck nestled in the woods owned by one Benny Lafitte.

Benny worked the night shifts at the diner a quarter of a mile up the way, where Dean came strolling in looking like an ant carrying Costco bulk food with the boulders of stuff on his back. His sole intent was a slice of pecan pie, and he got just that and then some.

Benny, who could bench half Dean’s weight if he wanted, must have been taken by surprise in his coffee-shop green apron, because Dean didn’t get caught in the headlights. Dean just saw him as a normal guy working towards what was left of the American Dream, and Benny fixed him a fresh pecan pie.

Dean misses his pies. Misses _him._ Dean couldn’t believe the call from Elizabeth, the waitress at the diner, when she told him of his passing just last week.

Anyway, Dean rented a room at the motel up the way for a week, and after the sixth day, Benny offered him the couch in his camper.

One night, things took a turn. Dean plotted down the retractable steps of the trailer to the sight of a blood trail beneath his bare feet. He could have done a million other things than follow the trail that led him to shore, where a man’s body lay, but curiosity’s always been a close ally of Dean’s.

The last thing Dean remembered was waking up in the same place he followed the trail to with a massive hangover, Benny having been the one who found him. When he brought him back to the camper is when Dean laughed weakly at the sight of Benny preparing him a Bloody Mary. The hangover was bad enough, and Benny was just going to make it worse. Only when Dean brought the drink to his lips did he start guzzling it down like it was edible gold. His whole body felt electrified, replenished. He needed _more._

Benny felt guilty since, dragging Dean into the life he tried to leave behind. Dean could insist until the stars went home, but nothing would convince him. So Dean, at the best interest of his best friend, took off north with the money he made from working as a full-time cook at the diner until he found himself over eight-hundred miles away in Illinois, where he met Cas. Cas’s Continental Mark V was near pluming smoke when Dean came to his aid.  Cas thanked him, and noticing the signature bags strapped to his back, offered him a ride home.

Of course, home for Dean would be his imprint in Cas’s mattress the same night.

Despite Dean hearing Cas’s blood like a locomotive spitting coal through and through whenever they have sex, he feels no primal thirst other than that of intimacy. Knowing he makes someone’s pulse spike just makes it that much hotter. And with Dean’s four other senses heightened, everything is better. The sight, smell, taste, the _sound—_ God, Dean loves the way Cas sounds, hoarser than usual between deep and strenuous sighs.

Getting over a bad breakup himself, Cas warned him of the implications of getting in too deep after the fact. Dean just snuggled closer into his side and laughed, “I think you already crossed that line a few minutes ago.”

And Cas replied—

“I could go with you.”

With his own hands still on Cas’s neck, Dean shakes himself from his musings, “No. No, I, uh…”

Dean has a thousand things brimming on his heavy tongue: _I can’t put your life in peril, I need you, someone has to stay here and fight for the life we have, the one we’ve built together._

But what comes out instead is, “No, I got to do this alone.”

And then he kisses him one last and passionate time and wraps him in his embrace.

One last adventure. Then he can hang his hat on the coat hanger in the foyer of their new house.

 


End file.
